


and we sing once more of the forgotten tales

by owilde



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Romance, Stannis Becomes the King, Two fools in love, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, meaning that i'm molding the canon into my liking, snippets of their journey, very self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 04:10:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12051024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: Davos steps closer, somehow, and the distance between them grows thin. "You have always been a good leader, so long as I have known you," he says. "I remember still the young boy who held Storm's End with such tenacity I had never thought to see in someone of that age. They called you the stone-faced man, they mocked you behind your back – and all the while you held the castle. The man that I saw that night, in Storm's End, was a man of honour and leadership, someone I knew I could follow. Someone that anyone ought to follow." He pauses, his eyes meeting with Stannis'. "You're still that same man I knew then.""You flatter me," Stannis says calmly, but his voice sounds rough. "Your faith in me is not, I hope, misplaced.""I know it is not," Davos replies.





	and we sing once more of the forgotten tales

**Author's Note:**

> i hate that this pairing has me so whipped, smh. been meaning to write something about them for ages, only now had the time and inspiration and inclination.
> 
> the shorter titles inside the fic are taken and translated from the song 'Rakkauslaulu' (lit. ' _Love Song_ ) by Johanna Kurkela
> 
> i'll admit to any and all potential typos, please call me out if you spot any

**i. a long time ago, in me**

"It's you," he says, and it sounds like thunder booming, yet softer, kinder. It isn't meant to bring lightning with it, it isn't meant to cut down trees and cause fires. It booms with an illusion of fury and the reality of hidden mercy and affection.

Davos lifts his head – he's never bowed down to anyone before, and his movements feel as clumsy as they most likely look. He's twisting his fingers nervously inside his gloves. "Pardon, my Lord, but what do you mean?"

Lord Stannis – and Davos feels odd, calling him a Lord, this boy too young for war who yet looks as though he's been on the battleground for decades, his face worn and etched – Lord Stannis looks at him, expressionless but considering.

"You're the one who saved us, is it not so?" Stannis asks, and it poses a challenge –  _can you take credit for our salvation? Can anyone?_

Davos fumbles over his words, older than Stannis yet horrendously unprepared for his cold disapproval. "Well, I suppose—it was you who saved this entire castle, isn't it?"

Stannis' lips purse into a thin line, and Davos fleetingly thinks it's the most emotion he's seen from the young Lord thus far. "It was only with your aid that we survived," Stannis states. "Had it not been for your onions we would have starved – and I can only assume that would have terribly disappointed Robert."

He can't help it; Davos laughs, one lone chuckle escaping his lips. Stannis looks startled – his brows furrow, first in confusion and then in some form of anger.

"Do you mock me?" Stannis asks, and now there's a steely edge to his words. "I will not—"

"I don't mock you," Davos reassures him, raising one hand as a sign of surrender. "It was only… it was funny, what you said."

When Stannis looks even more confused by this, Davos draws the most obvious conclusion – no one has ever laughed with Stannis, but only  _at_ him. He steps closer in the room, smiling slightly. "I think – and not that my opinions really matter here, in the midst of Lords and such – but I think that what you did was terribly tenacious and admirable. Upholding Storm's End, that is. I know of no other man who could have done it with such dignity and success. I brought you the onions, that much is true – but it was you who rationed them out. It was you who ate the least, whilst feeding the people. Anyone with half a brain ought to respect that – even your brother."

He belatedly realizes that perhaps insulting someone's family isn't the way to convince them you meant no harm, but it doesn't matter – Stannis smiles. Not brightly, and only briefly, but for a split second it is there. Davos thinks he can recognize the remnants of a young boy underneath the grim core, and feels something warm flare in his chest.

"You know how to pay a compliment, ser Davos," Stannis says, but his tone holds no malice. "Nevertheless, I thank you for your services. The entire castle is indebted to you." He pauses, and moves away from behind the table, fingers resting atop it. "However, you are aware of the price a smuggler and a thief must pay, yes?"

Davos glances at his fingers, flexes and curls them. "Aye," he confirms grimly. "I'm aware."

The next time he sees Stannis, he is four fingers shorter and one month wiser. The young Lord has taken residence on Dragonstone – not entirely willingly, if the rumours Davos has heard are to be believed.

Stannis looks wearier, and older, and Davos feels pity for him; pity that he might never express, if not only due to Stannis' unbearable pride. They find themselves in Stannis' chambers, and Davos can't remember what the discussion started from, but now the wine has been opened and his skin feels entirely too hot for the coldness of the night, and the words stumbling out of his mouth aren't entirely said out of his own will.

At some point, a hand finds its way to Davos' thigh, and he doesn't deny it – isn't sure if he'd ever want to deny anything from Stannis, which in itself is a worrying realization, though perhaps he'd already known this the minute he'd seen Stannis, their eyes meeting in the dark of the castle – and instead of denying anything, Davos reaches closer, too close.

He learns that Stannis' lips taste of ash and lost battles but won wars. He learns that Stannis can smile; his marble-like face, sculpted to fit the dead, can break and that when it does, it's the most beautiful sight he's ever witnessed. He learns that Stannis, though rumoured to be all sorts of things from a eunuch to an abomination, is none of those things at all. He learns of Stannis' compassion, of his justice and beauty and will of steel – learns of his fury, and bitterness, and ramrod back at the face of difficulties.

He learns to love – and to be loved, in return.

So, when the news hit Dragonstone, in the form a raven which collapses as soon as it reaches its destination, and they learn that Robert is dead, and Stannis turns to look at him, stern and harsh with crow's feet in his eyes, with the question already forming on his lips, Davos doesn't hesitate to reply with  _yes, of course, of course I'll follow you, my King and the only King—_

And so, it all begins.

**ii. an inclination already, of you**

"I cannot believe this," Stannis says through gritted teeth. He will never understand the sheer incompetence some of these so-called knights and Lords possess. Surely, one ought to survive from a simple task given to him – so simple, in fact, that Stannis hadn't thought to send more than two guards aboard.

"I'm terribly sorry, my Lord Stannis," Ser Nightindale mumbles, not even capable of summoning the courage to look him in the eye. "It is only – well, that is to say, that there were some complications—"

"That much is obvious," Stannis interrupts, steadily losing all patience he previously might've held. "I asked you to go and meet ser Davos,  _my Hand_ , and escort him safely to Dragonstone. And what have you done instead? You have  _lost_ him and returned here empty-handed, with nothing but more questions and apologises that do not ease me."

Ser Nightindale shifts on his feet. "It is only, Lord Stannis, that the weather—"

"Don't presume to fall into such territories of newfound patheticity," Stannis spits. "How is it possible for your self-described 'eyes of a hawk' to miss an entire ship?"

He cannot question the man any further – more's the pity – when a hand falls on Stannis' shoulder, and a flush of familiarity rushes through him.

"Stannis," Davos smiles, his teeth showing. Then he seems to remember himself, and amends. " _King_ Stannis. I hope you're not being too unkind to the poor fellow?"

Stannis frowns. "Where did you come from? I sent these men to fetch you—"

"I don't require fetching," Davos reminds him, all too kindly as per usual. "I found my own way."

"You seem to be in a habit of doing so," Stannis mutters. He sends a dark look towards ser Nightindale, who averts his own curious gaze. "I apologize for lashing out towards you. I should have understood that the fault may lie on more than a few people. You may go now."

Ser Nightindale vanishes with a nod and a deep bow, disappearing into the rain which had been steadily pouring down on them for days. The courtyard around them is dark; the night sky has been filled with heavy clouds, and not a single star is visible.

Stannis sighs wearily, and turns to spare Davos a glance. "My chambers," he says curtly, and turns on his heels, expecting for Davos to follow.

He does.

The fire had been put on by someone, though Stannis cannot recall asking for it. He's grateful nonetheless, watching as Davos discards his heavy cloak and resides on a chair in front of the fireplace, sighing in comfort as he stretches his legs as far as he dares to.

Stannis stands nearby, suddenly unsure of what to do with himself. He's been awaiting for Davos' return for days, and now that it has been thrusted upon him he cannot remember all the things he had made note to do.

"Why don't you sit down?" Davos asks, sounding amused. He glances at Stannis, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and Stannis feels a slight surge of annoyance due to the fact that he seems incapable of functional thought when Davos is looking at him like this.

"There is no chair," Stannis says slowly, his arms crossed over his chest.

"This chair's large enough," Davos shrugs. As if to prove his point, he shifts over and taps the free space to his right.

Stannis amends, because Davos asks, and because, truth be told – he's tired. The presence of Davos, safe in his chambers, alive and apparently unharmed, has registered in his brain, and the space that the worry had occupied is now freed, the exhaustion of the past weeks seeping in.

He sits down, his body pressed against Davos'. It's warm, and comfortable, and if Stannis were a lesser man, he might've called it  _comforting_. But he isn't prone to semantics; or at the very least, that is the popular gossip.

The public Stannis would never sit with his Hand like this. The public Stannis would never rest his head against Davos' shoulder, would never let their fingers entwine, would never sigh in content, would never allow the feel of a soft kiss pressed against his temple. That Stannis would not close his eyes and feel at peace, feel at home, in the arms of another man.

But Stannis does.

"I've missed you," Stannis admits, quietly, afraid to speak the words too loud.

He feels Davos card his fingers through his hair. "Aye," he says. "It has been a long time."

"How was your journey?" Stannis asks, because he still has his obligations to the crown, to  _his_ crown. "Have you learned anything new?"

Davos shrugs. "Sort of. The speak among the commoners is that Robert was murdered by his wife – or that is the most popular explanation. Some claim Ned Stark wanted to ascend to the throne and killed him out of jealousy, which begs the question of truly how much the people understand of how the line of succession operates. Some say it was an accident, some say it was magic, some say the Targaryen girl has dark witches working for her that cast spells on poor Robert."

Stannis is silent for a while. He opens his eyes, and stares into the fire with dull eyes. "And what do you think?"

"That hardly—"

"It does matter," Stannis argues before the point has even been made. "I trust your opinions, and your instincts. You know King's Landing, and you know the people."

There's a long pause, during which Stannis half fears Davos will not answer him at all.

"I think," Davos eventually starts, "that the Lannisters know more than they want us to think they do."

"It does seem oddly convenient for Robert to die now," Stannis agrees. "That he would die young, I had no doubt of – but this gives Cersei's eldest a seat on the Throne." He pauses. "A seat which he neither deserves nor is entitled to."

Davos hums in quiet agreement. Then he presses closer, his arms curling around Stannis. "It has been a long time," he repeats. "Too long."

They remain in place until the fire dies out, and fall asleep to the sounds of the howling wind outside, with rain hitting down against the walls of the castle in a comforting pattern.

**iii. then a stranger, now—**

"I'm to be married," Stannis says one evening. His tone holds no emotion – he doesn't seem to be in despair, nor in ecstasy. And while Davos is intimately aware of Stannis' quirks, and knows how to read him even when he does not truly know how to read at all, in this very instant, all he's seeing is nothing.

"Oh?" Davos exclaims, for the sake of saying anything at all. What does Stannis expect for him to say? Is he meant to fall on his knees, weeping for the loss of the man he loves – which he will not do, because the rational part of Davos' mind knows that he will not lose Stannis over anything, much less this.

Stannis lifts his head from the scroll he's been reading, and eyes Davos curiously for some time. In the dim light of the early evening he looks as though he's from a painting, and Davos wishes, in a ridiculous manner, that he could frame Stannis in the hallway of his mind for when they're separated and the exact lines of his face begin to fade from his memory.

"Is that all you have to say?" Stannis finally asks, and now Davos can detect a hint of disappointment, but it sounds odd, as though something is  _off_.

"Which lucky Lady are you promised to?" Davos asks, because Stannis is clearly seeking a stronger reaction than  _'oh'_.

"Selyse Florent," Stannis tells him. He continues to sound odd – and now there's a certain edge to his voice, one that Davos can't place but which makes him feel nervous. "She's a respectable woman, I hear. Very sensible."

Davos swallows. The news are beginning to hit him, like tidal waves. Stannis is to be married.  _Stannis is to be married._

"Well," Davos says tightly, "I'd certainly hope that the woman to snatch you would have the sensibilities to tackle on such a task."

A curious sequence of events occur – first, Stannis smiles, a tight-lipped and strange smile which seems more sad than joyful. Then he pushes himself to stand up, his fingers curling around the table, his knuckles turning white. And the next moment his face crumbles, in a way that Davos has never witness before.

They meet each other halfway, as they've always done, as they always will do. Stannis falls into his open arms, his forehead pressing against Davos' shoulder like a heavy weight, and all Davos can do is wrap his arms around Stannis and keep his own thoughts as calm as he can.

"I do not…" Stannis begins, and he stumbles for words – Davos feels a dagger of worry stab him in the back. Stannis never stumbles. "I do not wish to marry her," he finishes weakly, the words muffled by Davos' clothes. "I know it is required of me, it is my duty – but I've never once felt this kind of aversion to my responsibilities."

"Is it—because of…" Davos is afraid of asking the question, out of fear that it has nothing to do with him at all, but is, in reality, some sort of another hang-up Stannis has about marriage. The room feels as though its closing in on itself as Stannis breathes deeply, his head still resting against Davos' shoulder.

"It's you," Stannis says, his voice wavering only slightly. "Of course, it's you – I'm afraid that what we have will vanish when I'm married, like it never was. And that is the last thing I wish for. I can't bear the thought of losing you."

Davos feels his chest tighten, the air from his lungs stuck somewhere in his throat. "You—I didn't know you felt that strongly," he responds, blinking at the wall. He feels Stannis tremble a little – and then he straightens himself, only to press his forehead against Davos'.

"I'm not quite versed in—in explaining myself," Stannis whispers. "And for that, I am sorry. But please know that this—" He presses his right hand over Davos' heart. "—This is the one thing I am afraid of losing. Damn the crown, and this war. I have no need for a Throne if I cannot share it with you."

Davos lifts his own shaky fingers to cover Stannis' hand. "We will be alright," he promises quietly. "No matter what happens, what comes of us—we will be alright."

Stannis scoffs. "You cannot promise that," he says. "It makes no sense—"

"None of this makes any sense, Stannis," Davos laughs. "But will you trust me?"

Stannis falls silent. Then he closes his eyes with a sigh. "Of course," he says. "Always."

**iv. —now i know, and i confess**

The Woman in Red is seated beside Stannis, to his left, whilst Davos is to his right, his fingers curled into a fist underneath the table. It is a pleasant evening, or so he's been told several times by several people whose names nor titles he cannot remember, half of which he has never even learned. It is moments such as these when Davos remembers how utterly unqualified he is for his position of the Hand.

He hasn't received the formal upbringing all these people boast of. He never learned to read, never learned to write, and never learned how to speak like a true Lord.

He knows perfectly well when it is the right time to set sail, or who to sell to, or who to absolutely not sell to if he wishes to remain the least bit covert. He knows lots of things – but acting like a Hand to the King he knows nothing of.

He feels Stannis' hand settle atop his knee, and glances at him, brows shot in surprise. Stannis does not look back from the conversation he's having with someone across the table, but the corner of his mouth quirks the slightest bit. Davos chalks it up to Stannis being a little too adept at knowing his whims and moods, and focuses once more on his dinner.

Eating luxuriously is something Davos has never grown used to, and likely never will. That somehow food might simply appear in front of him, with no need for smuggling or arguing or unnecessary bidding involved, seems ludicrous to him. There's always a price to be paid – and Davos isn't eager to find out the price he will eventually pay for all that he's been given thus far.

"Lord Davos?" A strange voice asks from his right, and he turns to look. A man – a boy, really – is staring at him anxiously. He's twirling his fork in nervous circles, and his fingers seem to tremble. Black hair crowns his head, his complexion too pale in the candlelit room. For a brief, ridiculous moment, Davos entertains the idea that this boy is Robert Baratheon reincarnated – but he dismisses it with a slight shake of head.

"I'm no Lord," he replies, smiling. "Call me ser Davos, if you will."

The boy bows his head the smallest bit. "Ser Davos," he corrects. "It is an—honour, to meet you, ser. My name is Clayne Watersmouth."

"I've never heard of the Watersmouths," Davos says in surprise. "You must be a small house."

The boy smiles, his features twisting in an odd way. "Quite, yes," he supplies. "I must admit, this is not quite what I had expected when I heard Lord Stannis' famous dinner meetings described. I was expecting something altogether more… bleak."

Davos frowns. Stannis' dinners are not, by any stretch of imagination,  _famous_. They're attended by his inner circles and sometimes a few selected others, and are meant to be a space where they might freely discuss the course of the war and plan their future moves. They are most certainly never described to those who fall outside of the spectre that Stannis wants the information to stay inside of.

" _King_ Stannis," he corrects automatically. "How exactly did you—"

But before he can finish his sentence, there's a quick flash of silver, and Davos feels his neck implode with sudden and unbearable pain. He has a few seconds to realize that he has been stabbed – and then he can see black fog edge around the corners of his vision, dragging him further and further down.

He's vaguely aware of Stannis yelling in the background, and of the ensuing commotion – someone presses their hand against Davos' pulsing neck in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

" _Fetch a maester!"_ Davos hears Stannis bellow, and he realizes that it is Stannis who is now holding him in his lap, fingers curled around his neck. He thinks that if he was to die, now, he would not quite mind. Stannis feels warm against him, and everything else feels cold, freezing – Davos can't feel his limbs, can't grasp the room around him, and he only barely notices the blood trickling down his skin, slipping under his clothes and seeping through them.

"You will be alright," Stannis whispers fervently into his ear. "You promised me that we would always be alright – you cannot break your promise, not now."

Davos wants to answer him – wants to say that he will never leave Stannis, that not even death can separate them, that he loves—

But the blackness takes hold of him, and Davos slips into unconsciousness, comforted by Stannis' whispers and the feel of his hands against him.

He does not dream, not quite – but he has snippets of visions, something that might be called dreaming. Stannis holds his hand, smooth fingers resting against Davos' calloused ones. There's water, and someone is shouting – and who should it be, but Melisandre, stirring a storm, her figure unnaturally large against the ink black sea, her red seeping into the water like blood, tarnishing it— and then she dissolves into the water, and the blackness forms into another figure, holding a knife which it stabs against a cliff, and the cliff breaks down into rubble, falling into the sea—and suddenly Davos is in the sea, swimming desperately against the current as Stannis' voice booms and echoes around him, whispering about forbidden things, about love, about hope, and Davos uses the words as a raft, keeping him afloat—

He wakes slowly, blinking his eyes open with much challenge. The room dances around him, and Davos closes his lids once more, attempting to breathe steadily. He tests his limbs – wiggles his toes, his fingers, lifts his legs as much as he can. Finally, he reaches out to his throat with his right hand. It's been bandaged heavily, and the fabric feels sticky from his blood. Shakily, he drops his hand, and opens his eyes again.

At first, Davos thinks he is alone. The room is eerily quiet, with the only sound coming from the crackle of the fireplace. It's dark despite the fire – which is why it takes Davos a moment to notice the figure of Stannis, curled on a chair besides his bed. He looks as though he's sleeping lightly – his chin is pressed against his chest, and Davos knows he will wake with a crick in his neck. His arms are crossed, his back straight – if Davos hadn't seen the steady rise and fall of his chest, he might've thought Stannis had died.

"Stannis," he tries to say, but it comes out as a hoarse croak, barely audible.

Nevertheless, it is enough to wake Stannis – he blinks his eyes open, alert in a matter of seconds, his hand already having found its way to the hilt of his sword. When he notices that Davos is awake he relaxes and slumps down against the back of the chair, letting out a sigh of relief.

There's silence for a brief while. Then Stannis reaches out to hold Davos' hand, and Davos notes that he is shaking.

"You worried me," Stannis says, sounding almost accusing. He drags his chair closer, and reaches out to touch the bandages as carefully as he can, before withdrawing his hand.

"How long was I unconscious?" Davos asks, afraid for the answer.

Stannis purses his lips, his gaze settling somewhere near Davos' nose. "Nearly three days," he says. "The maester said you might not wake up at all, if the bleeding had been too severe." The implication is clear enough to Davos –  _you were close to dying_.

"Who—" Davos starts, then stops. "What happened?" He asks instead.

"The boy you were talking to drew his knife," Stannis explains. His voice is tense. "Nearly sliced your throat open; probably would have, had it not been for the guards."

Davos winces out of reflex – Stannis begins to rub circles to the back of his hand. "I apologize," Stannis amends. "I should not have said that." He sounds exhausted, even more so than usual.

"How long have you been sitting there?" Davos asks, concern seeping into his tone.

"Since they brought you in," Stannis says after a beat, and he locks eyes with Davos with a certain kind of defiance.

"You shouldn't have," Davos whispers.

"I had to," Stannis replies grimly.

And Davos understands.

**v. you were a danger too large to avoid—**

They rarely get moments like this, anymore. It's war, and Stannis knows that his duties are elsewhere and that he should not be preoccupied with his personal feelings, that he should not misplace his responsibilities for the sake of his own whims.

And yet.

And yet, they are dancing, slowly, with Stannis' hand on Davos' shoulder, and with Davos holding his waist and their free hands intertwined by their side. They're so close that Stannis can practically feel each misstep Davos makes, but he doesn't mind – they will not meet for over a month after this, and Stannis is willing to make all the memories he possibly can.

Such as the feeling of Davos' blunt and short fingers on his waist. Such as the way he smells of salt and the sea, but not in the way Stannis has come to hate the smell of sea, the rotten bodies and dead creatures and winds that carry the stench of terror – instead, Davos smells of things such as  _waves_ and  _storm_ and  _home_. And Stannis, despite his faults, will admit that Davos is his home.

"How long do you think you'll be away?" Davos asks, because he's sensible and thus refrains from asking silly questions, such as,  _do you have to leave_  – because they both know that he must.

Stannis attempts to shrug, but it falls short. "One month, maybe more," he replies. "There are battles to be won, and battles to be lost. Though I suspect that crushing the Lannister forces will not be a tremendously challenging task."

"Not all the forces," Davos reminds him. "Only a fraction. And then there is your brother, still."

Renly and his silly claim to the throne. Stannis grits his teeth, thinking of it. They're meant to hold a meeting, some months from now, and discuss the possibility of an armistice, or even an alliance – but Stannis isn't holding out too much hope. Renly is notoriously difficult, and his allies even more so – the Tyrells have never held a high position in Stannis' mind.

"Yes, my brother," Stannis says solemnly. "I'm ecstatic about our reunion."

Davos chuckles, his voice a quiet rumble, and Stannis feels his throat go dry. They continue their dance, but the steps keep getting slower, the pauses more dragged on. Eventually, they're merely swaying on their feet.

"I'll miss you," Davos says, and Stannis sees his lashes fluttering.

"I'll be back sooner than later," Stannis replies, but he knows that it is for naught. "I'll miss you as well."

"Well, I should hope so," Davos smiles. "I may not be your wife—"

"What a sight that would be," Stannis interrupts, and they both laugh quietly.

Silence falls. They stop their swaying. Stannis leans closer to kiss Davos, once, before breaking off.

"If I ever become King," Stannis starts.

"When," Davos corrects softly.

" _When_ I become King," Stannis continues, smiling briefly, "I will give them no choice but to accept you as my other half. Gods be damned – I will argue with the Stranger himself for us."

"I never took you for such a romantic," Davos hums. "While I appreciate the sentiment, I doubt the people would take kindly to you dismissing your wife for a smuggler."

"The people have grown used to the worst of things," Stannis argues. "And besides – what goes on in the Keep is none of their business, though they do their best to make it such. What I choose to do in private does not reflect on the way I rule – and so long as I am a King, there will be no need to cause a ruckus over my affairs."

"Words of a confident man," Davos muses. "Very well. I trust in you to deliver on your promise, then."

"I will," Stannis promises. "But for that, I need the crown. And for the crown, I need to go to battle."

Davos steps closer, somehow, and the distance between them grows thin. "You have always been a good leader, so long as I have known you," he says. "I remember still the young boy who held Storm's End with such tenacity I had never thought to see in someone of that age. They called you the stone-faced man, they mocked you behind your back – and all the while you held the castle. The man that I saw that night, in Storm's End, was a man of honour and leadership, someone I knew I could follow. Someone that anyone ought to follow." He pauses, his eyes meeting with Stannis'. "You're still that same man I knew then."

"You flatter me," Stannis says calmly, but his voice sounds rough. "Your faith in me is not, I hope, misplaced."

"I know it is not," Davos replies.

"Well then, I suppose I ought to return victorious, if not only for the sake of your vows," Stannis says. "And you will keep the castle for me?"

"Aye," Davos vows. "And when you return, we'll dance for our victory."

**vi. and too enticing to pass by**

The sun rises early, the rays reaching inside the tent and casting a beam across the floor. Stannis has already been awake for some time, staring at the wall with a resigned expression as he considers the day ahead.

Renly will no doubt be as miserable to speak to as always. It seems he has grown from a whimsical child to an arrogant and lackadaisical adult, which does not surprise Stannis – more so disappoints. He's not looking forward to this meeting, because it is fruitless. Renly will never settle for a truce, much less an alliance, and Stannis does not see much reason in trying to convince him.

If Renly would support his claim – if they could unite against the Lannister forces and drive the child King out of his Throne – then Stannis could be crowned as the rightful ruler, and Renly could do as he wishes, where he wishes.

Davos has tried to convince him that his brother might see reason, should the terms be presented in a way that he comprehends and can see reason in – but Davos has a history of placing his trust where it need not be placed.

It's not before midday that they are finally seated across a table – Renly and ser Loras in one corner, Stannis and Davos in another. Stannis feels the heavy tension in the room, so thick it could be cut with a sword. Davos is fidgeting next to him, but his face remains passive and calm.

Renly clears his throat once, and sets his crossed fingers on the table. "So, brother dear," he begins with a smirk that causes all kinds of annoyance in Stannis. "Have you come to bargain?"

"I will not bargain with the likes of you," Stannis says, his voice dripping distain. "I am here to negotiate."

"Negotiate," Renly repeats, his smirk never once wavering. "And what, pray tell, is it that we are  _negotiating_  for?"

Davos had said to make the deal seem enticing to Renly, to appeal to his sense of egotism and wish for comfort. They'd practiced in Stannis' room, with Davos fondly shaking his head at Stannis' attempts at being suave. Right now, as Renly is staring him down and ser Loras is playing with the hilt of his sword, an aloof expression on his face, Stannis has to do his hardest to recall the words they had agreed upon.

"As I'm certain you're aware, Joffrey has no real claim to the Throne," he begins. "He is not Robert's trueborn son – none of Cersei's children have their place as a ruler of the Seven Kingdoms."

"That much we can agree on," Renly allows. He leans forward. "As for  _your_ claim—"

"In the absence of an heir, the Throne falls on to the next of kin." Stannis fixes Renly a cold look. "Unless your education has been as lacking as has been suggested, you must know that I am older than you."

Renly licks his lips, and glances at ser Loras. Loras looks back at him with a raised brow – the two seem to be having a silent conversation, one that Stannis does not have the means to decipher.

"You are older than me, yes," Renly eventually says, tearing his eyes away from ser Loras. "But who's to say that you are more fit to be a ruler than me?"

Stannis grits his teeth. "Whether a King is  _fit_ to rule or not is insignificant," he says. "The people will never have you as their King, when it bypasses the laws of succession. You would be a usurper – and while I am sure the people hold no love for me, there are those who hold justice above all."

"Are you talking of yourself?" Ser Loras pipes up.

"You will not speak with such disrespect—" Davos starts, but he falls silent as Stannis places a hand on his arm.

"Leave it," Stannis says quietly. "The boy is young. He still has room for growth in him."

Renly is watching their interactions curiously, eyes zeroing in on Stannis' hand. He removes it, and stares back at Renly as if to challenge him to say something.

When Renly doesn't, Stannis continues. "If we were to join our forces we could remove Joffrey from the Throne. I could be the King, for as long as time calls for – and if, one day, I were to resign, you would take over. In the meantime, you would be free to do as you please – given that it isn't too extravagant."

There's a thoughtful silence, which catches Stannis off guard. He had expected immediate denial, laughter and perhaps some mocking words before Renly's inevitable departure. Instead, he seems to be sincerely considering the offer.

Renly leans closer to ser Loras, and the two of them exchange whispered words. Eventually, they seem to reach a conclusion, and Renly draws away.

"If I were to agree," he begins, slowly, "then would I be able to trust you to keep your word?"

"You're an even bigger fool than previously thought if you don't recognize your brother as being the most honourable man in all of the Seven Kingdoms," Davos says gravely from beside Stannis. "I have yet to see him break a vow for so long as I have known him."

Renly nods thoughtfully. "You are quite right," he says with a frown. Soon it dissolves into a smile. "Fine, then. I will agree to your terms, dear brother. Let us unite against the Lannisters, as brothers and as allies."

Stannis blinks in surprise. "Truly?"

"Truly," Renly confirms. He stands up, and all the rest follow in suit. "We will discuss further nuances over dinner this evening. Until then, brother."

On his way out, Renly pauses to shake hands with Stannis. As he does, he leans closer.

"It seems you and I have more in common than thought," he whispers, a sly smile spreading across his face. "Do take good care of ser Davos, will you?"

And with that he and Loras whisk out of the tent, leaving Stannis standing there with a confused frown.

**vii. i did not know how all could so shine, burn**

The Throne had looked bigger than Davos had imagined. It had been standing, imposing, at the back of the room while he and Stannis had climbed the steps up to it. Neither had cut themselves on the swords, which Davos believed to be a good sign – the Throne did not reject them. At least, not yet.

Stannis had been crowned, with Davos by his side the whole time. Selyse was holding Storm's End, now – Stannis had assured him that their decision to separate had been just as much to the enjoyment of Selyse as it was to Stannis. Davos did not doubt this. Selyse had grown more and more dissatisfied in her marriage by the day, and whether she knew of Stannis and Davos or not, it was apparent she'd rather keep to herself than endure a loveless union in King's Landing.

Only a few hours previously, they had been standing in the Throne Room in front of the crowds, and Davos had watched as Stannis had, for the briefest of moments, smiled at his audience.

Now, Stannis is lying next to him, his chest falling and rising in a steady rhythm. He is staring up at the roof, barely blinking, his shoulders drawn and tense.

Davos lifts a hand and lays it rest atop Stannis' chest, tapping incoherent patterns on to his skin. Stannis' frown dissipates as he glances at Davos from the corner of his eye.

"I'm being a lousy partner," he says with a hint of apology. Then he frowns once more. "I do not understand."

"Understand what?" Davos asks.

Stannis closes his eyes with a sigh. "I'm meant to have everything now. I am the rightful King, with the most capable Hand and the most attentive of Small Council. My wife has taken residence elsewhere, and no one demands me to re-marry. No one is demanding an heir from me. No one is demanding anything from me but my devotion to the Seven Kingdoms." He pauses. "Yet, for some God forsaken reason, I do not feel an inkling of joy."

Davos hums. "Might it be the shock?" He suggests. "A lot has happened in a very short span of time. You simply need to adjust to the changes, and let the rest fall to place."

"Might be," Stannis agrees quietly. There's a considering pause, during which Davos begins to worry he has overstepped some invisible line. Then Stannis continues. "There is something, though, which cannot be denied," he muses.

"And what is that?"

"You did keep your promise," Stannis tells him. "We are alright. And we will be."

Davos' chest feels warm, all of a sudden, and when Stannis offers his hand Davos takes it. "Then I suppose you also kept your promise of victory," he replies. The reality of it hits him suddenly with its absurdity. "You truly did it. You won the crown."

"Aye," Stannis agrees quietly. He tilts his head slightly to look at Davos, his gaze oddly warm. "But the crown is not the most important thing in my life."

Davos smiles back, and huffs out a laugh. "Don't become a sap now that you're a King."

"Have I not always been 'a sap'?" Stannis asks, smiling. "Or is it only that you bring out the worst in me?"

"I don't know," Davos says. "Were you a sap before meeting me?"

Stannis pretends to think for a while. "I rather think not," he eventually replies. "You've turned me into the sort of person who dances without music."

"There's no need for music when you're dancing with someone you care for," Davos says defensively. "I've told you this."

"Several times," Stannis agrees, amused. "For what it's worth, I'd gladly spend the rest of my days dancing with you, were it a possibility."

"Who's to say it is not?" Davos asks. "Grant Renly the crown, and retire with me to somewhere – anywhere."

"One day," Stannis promises. "One day, we will do that. But for now, the Kingdom needs stability, and I'll be glad to deliver on that notion. And when we're older, and Renly has grown wiser, I will be equally glad to give him the Kingdom keys and take you on your offer."

"Do you think we might visit the Wall?" Davos wonders. "I've always wanted to see it, but somehow never got around to it."

"We'll see the Wall," Stannis says. "We'll see every piece of Westeros, and we'll make sure that it is a land of justice, and not one of brutality and terror. I will fix what Robert ruined, and together, we will ensure a peace that shall last for decades."

"I like that," Davos hums. "I like that a lot."

"I might even dedicate a castle to you," Stannis says, and Davos can't quite tell whether he's joking or not.

"You absolutely will not," he argues nonetheless. "There's no need to make a spectacle out of me."

"There's all the reason," Stannis says decisively. "But it is your choice."

"Well, I choose not to."

"Very well."

There's a silence.

"Stannis?"

"Yes?"

Davos swallows nervously. "Do you ever think—do you think that perhaps, there's some sort of a reason for why we met?"

Stannis frowns. "Some force of destiny, you mean?"

"Something akin to that," Davos confirms.

Stannis wonders for a while. "No," he eventually concludes. "I think that it was a lucky coincidence you decided to help smuggle some onions and fish to some poor fellows, and all that has since ensued has been our own doing."

Davos nods. "Good. I think so, too." He pauses. "Although, it would be rather romantic if it had been—how do they say? Written in the stars?"

Stanns scoffs gently. "Nothing is written in the stars," he says. "That is ridiculous."

"I only repeat what the people say."

"You're a ridiculous man."

And Davos smiles, closing his eyes. "Aye," he agrees. "That I am."


End file.
